Be alive
by ravenclawsserpent
Summary: John Watson asked Sherlock Holmes for one more miracle. "Don't be dead." When John gets his wish, both their worlds are rocked, as nothing can be as it once was. Read along as Sherlock and John attempt to rebuild the life they left behind, and cope with their feelings for one another.
1. Chapter One

**Author's Note : Hello all! So this is the first Johnlock story I've ever written, and I would love to have some feedback**

Harriet Jane Watson was a recovering alcoholic, that much was evident from the way she tapped on the wine list and dog-eared the corners.

She was sat at a small table, in the corner of a rather overpriced restaurant and was preparing to tell her brother she was relocating to America with her sobriety coach.

That news was written all over the nicotine stains on her fingers and the way she parted her hair. John was running late, he always ran late this time of year.

It had been nearly two years since Sherlock's death, and Johns grief had resulted in him always being about fifteen minutes late, the re-emergence of his psychosomatic limp, and the growth of a rather bushy, yet meticulously kept moustache.

When she saw John, her heart hurt a little bit. He was wearing a navy suit, with a white shirt, and had clearly been over-combing both his hair and his moustache.

"Hello Harry."

"John."

She leant forward to hug him and felt him tense up. It was hard for him to stand physical affection.

Whenever Sherlock touched him, those fleeting moments of physical intimacy, whether it was his fingers grazing Sherlock's chest when he made John grab a pen, or late nights when Sherlock condescendingly ruffled John's hair whenever he fell asleep on the couch, it meant so much more than the every day meaningless affection.

"Sorry I'm late. Something about the traffic." John lied, both knowing it.

"How have you been?" She asked. She smiled, half-heartedly.

"Yeah, yeah really good. I've been continuing on the consulting work after.. you know."

They both knew what they meant, after Sherlock died. John continued on as a consulting detective, being paid a handsome retainer by both public and private interests.

"I'm glad to see you actually. I've got some news."

She shifted in her seat. She hated this part. Honestly, John was always the more sensitive of the two, and Harry was rather selfish. She drank, she smoked, she flitted between women quicker than a fly between pieces of shit. John disapproved, of course, but was frequently hurt by her thoughtlessness.

"Oh?" He asked, no emotion in his voice, as he gestured for a waiter, and pulled the wine list away from her.  
"Yeah. Things have been going so well, Leonora has asked me to come with her to the sobriety retreat in Manhattan. She thinks it would be good for the brand to have a success story so up close and personal, you know?"

"Nothing to do with the fact that you're fucking her then?" Harry nearly choked on her drink, but John didn't bat an eye. He'd changed a lot since Sherlock, and even more since Sherlock's death. It hardened him.

"No not at all. I mean, um, well obviously our relationship has been moving in such a good direction." She trailed off, and then looked puzzled, and was about to ask how on earth John knew about it, but before she could a confusingly familiar waiter came to the table.

He leant on the table, nonchalantly, which she thought was rather over personal.

"Yes Sir, what can I do for you?" The waiter with the ebony curls asked him.

"What do you recommend I drink to irritate my tee-total sister?"

"Oh, we have many brilliant options here. I personally would recommend the Dalmore. It's a forty-five-year-old Highland Scotch, and if I may say, runs down your throat warm, like a familiar face from the past." John didn't even look up, and the penny hadn't dropped yet.

The great Sherlock Holmes, previously the worlds only consulting detective, and famed arrogant bastard, was now seemingly a revenant.

"Very well then. I'll have a double." John winced, pain shooting through his leg. Cruelty didn't suit him.

"Sir, perhaps you didn't hear me. I said the warmth is like seeing a face from the past." The waiters voice dropped, to a dangerous and seductive low. John would have recognised that voice anywhere.

It couldn't be.

Perhaps he was hallucinating. He did that from time to time.

He looked up, and the entire world seemed to have stopped spinning. It was him, it was Sherlock, black curls amassed almost perfectly. His deep eyes, grey pools to swim in. Those fucking cheekbones.

Unsure of his reality, John brushed his fingers against Sherlock's hand, he was still lent over the table. He recoiled instantly. He was real. He was alive.

"Well, John. I guess I wasn't expecting anything as trivial as a hug, but couldn't you at least look happy to see me? I guess the short explanation you're looking for is, not dead."

Harriet snorted. She opened her mouth to say something but found herself speechless.

"Sherlock." John spoke at last.

Still leaning on the table, Sherlock gave him a crooked smile and winked.

Without even thinking of the consequences, John stood, forgetting his crutch and the pain it was supposed to help with, and punched Sherlock in the face, before yanking on his lapels and doing it again.

For once, Sherlock didn't see it coming.

 _Three Hours Later:_

Three hours later, Sherlock and John had been thrown out that restaurant, a greasy spoon, a kebab shop and one fish and chips. Each time Sherlock had been, well Sherlock and John had punched him.

Eventually, Sherlock conceded that he was a terrible asshole, and suggested that they go back to 221b to talk everything over with a takeout.

He daren't point out that John left his crutch at the first restaurant, he didn't think his jaw could take another hit.

Sherlock found that nothing had truly changed in the two years, and he didn't know if he should be concerned or thankful.

Instead of plastering over the bullet holes in the wall, John had elected to hang a picture over it.

Instead of getting rid of Sherlock's armchair, he'd pushed it into the corner of the lounge, away from Johns line of sight.

His experiments had been disposed of, but Sherlock found the fridge startlingly bare – milk for tea and one leftover Chow Mein.

They ate in an awkward silence, John vowing to not talk first before Sherlock had attempted to explain with some half-hearted apology.

"So." Sherlock started after watching John wolf down his fish, whilst Sherlock picked half-heartedly at his.

John said nothing. He pushed his food away and stood. He crossed the lounge and moved Sherlock's armchair back in front of his own.

"Sit." He commanded Sherlock. Sherlock obliged.

"I don't give a shit about how," John said, emotion clouding him, voice breaking. "I want to know why."

He was holding himself together quite well, all things considering. Sherlock frowned. He didn't know what to say, how to explain. How to start.

"John. I want you to know that I don't, I didn't mean to, I didn't want to."

It was surprising to see Sherlock falter so, though John was enjoying what he interpreted to be his own brand of karma.

"John, I didn't do any of this to hurt you. I didn't want to, hurt you. When I got onto that rooftop, I knew there wasn't going to be a happy ending, no matter how perpetually you'd have me believe in the possibility. He had all of you at gunpoint."

"I don't remember that."

"Of course you don't. If you'd known about it, you would have fought back. You all would have."

"All of us?"

"Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, and you. Though, Mycroft knew about the weak link in his team, but just pretended not to, so he could help me."

"Mycroft knew? The man you nicknamed the Ice Man? Horrible older brother that allegedly tormented you for most of your childhood? He knew?" Johns fists were balling up and his knuckles were turning white.

"He runs the British Government, of course he knew. He got me out of the country, he made sure you were all safe."

"Then why not come back? Why not just get of the bleeding roof and tell me it was all okay?"

"Oh John. Come on, you're not that thick. You're not stupid at all, you know that if I'd have just pulled a Lazarus his criminal network would have destroyed all of you. I couldn't risk that. I had work to do. I had to dismantle Moriarty's remaining network and make sure that neither he nor anyone else could hurt any of you, ever again."

"So you just watched. You just let me cling to a dead body, begging for a pulse and praying that this was one of your clever little tricks. You watched, did you? I bet you got off on that, didn't you, you sick fuck? Proof that the amazing Sherlock Holmes had someone to grieve him." John twitched.

Sherlock said nothing, but he looked away from John, and if John didn't know any better, he'd read the expression on Sherlocks face as humiliation. Perhaps regret. He almost looked hurt.

Sherlock wouldn't tell him that it was his body on the floor, and that he felt Johns hand clinging onto him. Sherlock wouldn't tell him how much it hurt, or how he cried himself to sleep for nights on end afterwards, guilt eating at him like mould.

This was almost more than John could take.

He'd gotten used to his meaningless existence since Sherlock's death. Case, solved, sleep. Case, solved, sleep.

Occasionally, when the nightmares proved too dark and being awake proved too desolate, he'd find solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Several Whiskey bottles. He wasn't proud, and ashamed of turning out like his sister.

But this, it felt like ice had been poured over him, whilst he was stood on hot coals licking fire up his legs. This man, this impossible man, who'd shown him such wonderful things and given him a reason to live, was sat in front of him.

He was sat in his old armchair, and damn him, he looked like a day hadn't passed.

But in reality, two years had been a lifetime for John, a lifetime of loneliness, regrets, and stoic acceptance of a life without love.

He'd always believed that Sherlock loved him, in his own, asexual, strange way, but right now it was hard to believe Sherlock ever loved anything other than his own jumped up ego.

Sherlock saw John lost in thought, and probability would suggest it wasn't filled with grateful thanks to an unknown deity that Sherlock survived.

In an attempt to quell the burning rage Sherlock knew was coming his way, he spoke again.

"I, am sorry John. I cannot imagine how you feel right now, and I won't bother with false humility or grovelling, that would just embarrass us both. There was nothing in my power I wouldn't have done, there was nothing I wouldn't have considered, and there is nothing I will not do to keep you safe."

If those words, that idea of sentiment had come from anyone else, it would have sounded overplayed, pretend, like the words from a bad script like an unknown author.

But from Sherlock, the stoic asexual and perpetual virgin, those words flowed freely, and no matter how mad John was, he knew that Sherlock meant it.

John swallowed and stood up.

He was shaking, and could barely stay on his feet, but if he didn't leave now, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to leave the presence of the detective. He wanted nothing more than to stay by his side for the rest of eternity just to prove he was real. But he couldn't.

If Sherlock left him once, he would leave him again, and John refused to get attached just to have his heart ripped out.

"I take it back. I don't care why you did it. I don't care how. I can't believe a word you said. I grieved you, and I lost you. I was stood at your grave and I cried. I asked you for a miracle! I asked you to not be dead!" John was almost shouting.

Sherlock blinked.

"I know. I was there." A sob left John at this point, and he faltered, emotion and physicality overwhelming him, and he fell to the floor. He was shaking, and nearly hit his head. He was having a panic attack.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant, cradling his head and offering his support. Between gasps and sobs, John thrashed at Sherlock, and yelled something nasty about the sodding detective.

Wordlessly, Sherlock lifted John like he was nothing, and holding him gently, like a groom carries a bride, took him to his room.

Once he placed him on the bed, he nodded, a sign of goodbye, that he wouldn't intrude on Johns consciousness any longer, and shut the door behind him on the way out.

When John calmed, he heard the kettle boiling, and then Sherlock's door shutting. Quietly, socks padding on the hardwood floor, John Watson left his bedroom and crossed the hallway into the kitchen.

A cup of tea, just the way he liked it, milk, one sugar, was out waiting on the side. After wrestling with what it symbolised if he took it, and cursing the absurdity of the situation, John took the mug, and limped back to his bed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Authors Note - Hey y'all! I'm sorry for not updating frequently. Like I said in my Snamione update - I've been a little sick and had a few previous commitments that was pretty much all I could uphold. I'm feeling better now and ready to get my Johnlock on. And yes, this is a very angst filled chapter and you've got a few more before I get to the smutty, lemon goodness. It is coming though. As always, feel free to leave a follow or review! Enjoy!**

In the morning, Sherlock was almost swimming in happiness.

He was back, in his old stomping grounds, and London air felt good in his lungs. Sure, his jaw hurt from John's punches, but all things being considered, Sherlock wrote it off as a hero's welcome.

He stretched himself out across his old bed, still bare chested, old familiar blue pyjama trousers. He sprung up from his bed with a start, joyful spritely and energetic.

If he was lucky, he'd have a nice few murders to solve by the end of the day. He left his room, and frowned as John's bedroom door was open, and his room was empty. Sherlock shrugged, and walked through to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on.

He stretched again, and went through the motions of making a cup of tea. The room seemed cooler than it should. Sherlock turned around.

The door into the hallway was unlatched, lock set open, but the door closed.

 _John wanted to leave and return._

Sherlock went through the threshold, and he followed the cool air to the front door. It was like the other, shut but unlocked.

 _Available for John to return whenever he pleased._

Sherlock detected the old, familiar, comforting smell of nicotine.

 _John was smoking?_

He pulled the door open, and John Watson stood, smoking a cigarette, leaning on his walking stick, with his back to Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't turned to Sherlock, so clearly he didn't know he was there.

Sneaking, silently like a panther, Sherlock closed in on John, still towering over his little doctor, stood tall behind him, within touching distance.

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Before Sherlock had time to say anything else, John threw his stick into the air, caught it, and whacked it behind him, striking Sherlock square in the stomach.

Sherlock groaned, and John chuckled. Perhaps it had been a bad choice of words on his part. Sherlock was still doubled over, whining.

"Reflexes are getting faster, Dr Watson." Sherlock said, but John didn't reply. He flicked his cigarette out onto the pavement, and seemingly ignored Sherlock, and returned inside.

He didn't speak to the curious detective for another three hours, until midday when Lestrade arrived for the briefing of the newest case he'd gotten stumped upon. They sat in their armchairs, Sherlock had resigned himself to being ignored by the good Doctor until John felt his penance had been paid.

Lestrade mumbled on, poorly feigning surprise at Sherlock, but John deduced Lestrade had known for a while.

After Lestrade mumbled on, leaving out all the important parts of the case, focusing only on the overdone theatrics, silence fell across the room.

"What do you say then Sherlock, interesting enough for your massive intellect and amazingly superior powers of deduction?" A hint of vitriol hid behind Johns sarcasm.

Sherlock looked up from inspecting his tea leaves.

"Oh, um, yeah. Totally. Consider it solved."

Later, alone together at the crime scene, stood over a body, Sherlock thought it time to broach the subject of John's apparent underwhelming response to his return.

"So what is it?" John was hunched over the body, examining the tips of his fingers.

"If the cousin has a stuffed giraffe in their bedroom, it was her brother. We should notify Lestrade to have the specialist team work with this one."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John was right, he must have gotten faster in his absence.

"No, not that. Though well done, you're learning to keep up. You really don't seem awfully happy to see me John, I must admit. I'm hurt." John looked up from the body and stood, gripping onto his stick for support.

Sherlocks voice took the tone of mock hurt, but John knew real emotion was behind this guise.

"Because I don't believe you, Sherlock." John shook his head as he said this and frowned slightly. He looked away from Sherlock, embarrassed at the emotion betrayed in his voice.

He cleared his throat. Like that would make it leave. John swallowed and elaborated.

"I don't believe you. I haven't quite figured everything out yet, and I will admit, I'm a slow learner, but I learn. And Sherlock, going by all the empirical evidence, as you have always taught me to do, you broke me, you let me bleed and cry and break myself into pieces for two years, two exceptionally long years, just because you could. Your actions have shown that you think of me as nothing more than a pawn, a puppet with all those messy human emotions attached. You told me once that sentiment was a chemical defect. Thankyou for finally proving it."

John blinked away tears that were threatening to prick at the corner of his eyes. His nostrils flared, and he refused to let emotion take hold of him in this moment, refusing to show weakness to Sherlock, not now. Not ever again, as far as he cared.

"Perhaps you'll find a better friendship with the dead, Sherlock, since you seem to both have the same emotional range."  
Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out of Johns mouth, and without pausing to take in the magnitude of what he'd just said, he turned on his heels and left the crime scene.

When Sherlock followed after him, five minutes or so later, he'd left the area, or so Anderson said, hailing a cab away without speaking to anyone.

Sherlock got a cab home, and forehead pressed to the window as rain started spitting from the sky, considered, truly for the first time, what he'd done to John.

He'd always expected his absence to have hurt the good Doctor, but perhaps Sherlock underestimated just how deeply Johns capacity for emotion was.

He was continuously bound by a sense of moral duty and guiding courage, even though Sherlock said it was nothing more than conditioned response to life and trauma.

Sherlocks thoughts flickered to the first time he knew he cared about John, that night by the pool.

He recalled seeing John strapped with all of those explosives, and suddenly it was like Moriarty had strapped a piece of Sherlock up, a part of his heart, and was threatening to tear him into jagged little pieces.

Back at 221b, John was stood by his bedside table, staring at the scarf in his hand.

Sherlock's scarf. From that day. It still had his blood on it. If that was Sherlocks blood, of course, John couldn't really tell anymore.

It felt like he couldn't understand anything. John had slept with this scarf tied to his bedpost every night for the past two years, the last ebbing piece of Sherlock, and was almost prepared to let go, let Sherlock's memory finally be free

when Sherlock waltzed into his life again and wanted to pretend everything was completely fine.

He ran his other hand over the soft fabric, and gently rubbed his fingers on the dried blood. John wasn't mad at Sherlock, not really.

Well, he was, of course, the sodding prick had left him without a second thought, but he was even more mad at himself. He was mad, because he was so happy.

For two years he drove himself to the brink of death, and more than once threatened to push himself over the edge and now Sherlock was back, and John finally thought everything was going to be okay again.

John was stupid and clearly never learnt to stop touching burning things if he didn't want to get burnt.

He knew by now that loving Sherlock was an exercise in insanity, because Sherlock didn't love anything or anyone but himself, but he loved Sherlock.

It was true, what he'd said continuously, to everyone.

He wasn't gay.

But, John Watson was bisexual, and resented the idea that sexuality was a polarising gay or straight scenario, and therefore never corrected them, angry that they never considered it an option.

But this, what John felt, it went deeper than sex. Sure, Sherlock was attractive, albeit unconventionally, but he fell in love with Sherlock in the details.

The foggy mornings Sherlock used to leave absurdly early to get John's favourite pastries from the bakery he liked, just to play it off as Mrs Hudson overstocking her pantry.

The way when he was working he'd fall asleep by the fireplace, and it was the only time he ever snored, light and gentle, a beautiful sight to behold.

John fell in love with Sherlock silently, knowing that Sherlock would never love John back, even if he was capable of such a thing, his mind far too brilliant and complex to hold affection for a battered army Doctor.

But even John had to admit this was cruel. He knew he wasn't everything to Sherlock, but he thought the time they'd spent together meant something, even as friends, and it cut him to the bone that Sherlock had treated him like a throwaway toy.

Sherlock had decided to give John some space, so when he came home, back to the now infamous 221b, hours had passed, which Sherlock was about to find out wasn't a very good idea.

As soon as he stepped into the lounge, the scent of whiskey and stale cigarettes hit him like a wall.

John was sprawled across Sherlocks armchair, empty beer bottles bleeding dregs into the carpet, and a half empty whiskey bottle currently being cradled in his lap. At the closing of the door, John spoke.

"Ahh, the greatest Herlock Sholmes, perpetual genius and well-known cockhead! Please, go on. Start cluing looks you tall asshat. Tell me what you see!"

John put the whiskey bottle on the side, golden liquid sloshing up the sides. John stood, and stumbled, but regained his balance, staggering upright, stock still, like a soldier.

"John, I don't think this is a –"

"Oh no, come on now! What is it you used to say? The game is on!"

"I don't want to-"

"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock! Solve it!"

"You're drunk."

"Smart." John's eyes narrowed. "And why do you think I'm drunk, Sherlock?"

"Because of me. Because I left."

"Oh no. No Sherlock. I'm not drinking because you left, I'm drinking because you came back."

John turned and took another swig from the whiskey bottle, before throwing it into the empty, unlit fire. The bottle smashed, loudly.

It was nothing compared to how hard Sherlocks heart seemed to be beating. Everything seemed to be humming, around him, all too much and nothing all at once.

 _Six beer bottles, one whiskey, half drunk. Johns pupils are dilated, he's staggering slowly and his reflexes are delayed._

 _Pain tolerance increased going by the fact he hasn't noticed that he cut his hand when he threw the bottle._

 _Soft carpets, unlikely to concuss self on the floor. Best course of action, subdue and placate, get him into bed._

Sherlock ignored the skipped heartbeat at the thought of putting John into bed for the second night in a row.

"Would you like me to leave again, then?"

He asked, moving like a serpent towards the fireplace. Next to the fireplace gave him the best angle to subdue John physically, if it came to that.

He was still drunk, but he was an army doctor, and he could really break all Sherlocks bones whilst naming them. John scoffed and supressed a wave of nausea that followed. He hiccoughed quietly to himself.

"That would be the easy option, wouldn't it? If you just fuck right off to whatever hole you came from."

Sherlock couldn't hide the pain of Johns comments, and they stung like a stab wound to the heart. That was saying something, considering he'd been stabbed. Not in the heart, but still.

Hurt spread across his face like waves, each ripple painfully betraying the realization that he'd hurt John Hamish Watson, the good army doctor, the nicest and purest man he'd ever known.

"No, of course I don't want you to go again."

John stumbled into the kitchen now, knocking over a cup on the table. He mumbled something about eggs, and grabbed a frying pan from the cupboard, turned the gas on, and Sherlock followed him, turning the gas off and putting the frying pan back in the cupboard.

"If you like John, I can have my transport out of the country organised by the end of the hou-"

"The problem isn't that I want you to leave, you daft sod! It's that I never want you to go again! What don't you understand? I want you to never be allowed out of my sight, never straying far from me every again."

John had migrated back into the lounge, and after his testimony, was stood, staring aloof into the fireplace.  
The grey mist of his memories descended onto him, and Sherlock worried that John had gone into a place where no one could reach him.

"Then why are you like this?" Sherlock probed, hoping to ground him back to earth, back to 221B, back to him.

"Because you will." He answered almost immediately, urgency betrayed in his voice. His knuckles where now white, and he was clutching onto the fireplace for dear life.

"I will?"

"You. Will. Leave. You walked back in, like nothing had happened, like you never left. You had no idea how much it hurt and how much it still kills me, and you will do it all again, because you didn't fucking care the first time and you won't care the next. My emotions mean nothing to you!"

He boomed, accusatorily. He refused to look at Sherlock, resolve strengthening and anger bubbling away to form the resolute steel he knew he had to be.

"The worst thing is you don't even know how bad it hurts, because you're Sherlock Holmes, consulting fucking detective. You observe, but you never see! You never once see because you're too busy convincing everyone else how utterly clever and exceedingly obnoxious you are!"

He said nothing, though he was swaying gently from side to side, alcohol lulling him into calm, fire ignited in his belly dousing out.

"John. I'm not leaving. Not again, not ever. I'm back for good. It's okay now."

The atmosphere changed. Sherlocks voice changed, and it was now softer, gentle, all traces of the cocky all-knowing bastard he seemed to be, gone.

"Liar." Sherlock placed a gentle hand on Johns shoulder, calm yet strong. He didn't seem to want to let go either, and John seemed calm under Sherlocks guiding hand.

"I'm not lying John. I left to keep you," He faltered.

"You all, safe. John, I took two years to dismantle Moriarty's network, to destroy everything he had ever even thought to create, so he couldn't harm you anymore. I am home. I'm not going to leave London ever again. It's my home. It's my place. Nothing will tear me from it again."

John let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding for too long. He relaxed against Sherlocks touch, gently and then leant into him, drink swaying him into Sherlocks arms, toppling over.

Sherlock caught him and dropped him gently into his armchair.

All hostility faded away, and it was instead replaced with a gentle, wrought out sobbing, Johns shoulders bobbing and his chest retching.

"There there" Said Sherlock, mimicking something he saw his mother do once, and pulled John into a hug, patting him on the back.

"I'm a failure…ju-just like Harry." John choked out between sobs, and kicked, sending an empty beer bottle flying.

"Only I'm not like her, because she's all sober and pious now and looks on me down like I'm one of the great afflicted."

"John, your reasonable response to traumatic stimulus, like many, is to get so blindingly drunk that the hangover the next day is physical pain overcompensation for emotional turmoil. Nothing is wrong with you, and you're not a drunk. Drunk, yes. A drunk, no."

John looked up at him, puppy eyes and all. Tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes now flowed freely, across his cheeks and down his neck.

"Plus, you know Harry's sobriety is a total lie. It was written all over her in that restaurant. The way she parted her hair, third set crease of her dress, bitten nails." Sherlocks self assured and all-knowing attitude and tone was back.

"Really?" John asked tentatively. Sherlock let go of John and sat back into his own armchair.

"Yeah. Plus, I saw the empty travel size's in her purse."

John erupted into laughter, powerful and guttural, chuckles peppered with sobs. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and snorted.

Sherlock chuckled along with him. He was glad to see John smiling, laughing again and happy, such a stark difference from moments before.

Johns laughter died down, and he stared into the empty, unlit fire, at the whiskey bottle shards.

"You, really wont leave again? You won't go?" He asked.

"Not at all John. You're my best friend." Sherlock replied.

Sherlock saw something change at that moment inside John, and he wasn't sure why. He looked defeated.

John clenched his fists into the soft sofa armchairs, his jaw tensed, and his chest rose and fell just a little quicker.

John furrowed his brow, and those tears from before threatened to pour from his eyes again. John was too drunk to control himself now.

With the alcohol in his belly, head seemingly filled with cotton and marbles, emotions threatening to spill from his mouth, unable to fully comprehend the complexities of this conversation.

Somewhere, he would have to remember in the morning that Harry wasn't sober, and that he'd need to reach out and offer his half-hearted, duty bound support.

But he was struck by the overwhelming heartbreak thudding like bricks into his chest. He wasn't sure which was worst, Sherlocks 'death', his return, the threat of the only man he ever loved leaving again, or being bound into a friendship would never be enough for him.

Heartachingly, John would take it. He'd take everything he was given because he loved Sherlock and being friends with him was leagues better than life alone.

Still, it was nothing but a shadow, a glimpse of what John really wanted, what he craved. John laughed, hollow, empty like his soul.

John had resigned himself to meaningless, nothing, empty, and now having a glass half full was not enough and too much all at once. He was bone dry, in a drought, and drowning from the overflow of his emotions.

John stood. He limped and swayed, hobbling along out of the room, down the corridor.

He laughed again, and Sherlock went after him, tentatively, unsure of what was happening next.

John said one word, which seared into Sherlocks chest and filled him with confusion, back still turned, almost refusing to look at the man that held him in his hand and threatened to squeeze.

One word, and he disappeared his bedroom, door shutting so quietly and gently Sherlock barely heard the click.

Friend.


	3. Chapter Three

Since the good doctor's drunken outburst, life had resumed into an uncomfortable, but manageable routine at 221B.

They solved crimes together, and resumed cohabiting, Mrs Hudson complained at least once a day that no, she was not their housekeeper, and no, she would not be cleaning the kitchen because Sherlock had accidentally, on purpose, had exploded eyeballs. Again.

If anyone looked closer however, it was perfectly plain that things were wrong. John had kept his moustache, just to spite the consulting detective, whom claimed that he 'preferred his doctors clean shaven'.

He rarely made eye contact with Sherlock and had ceased all attempts to feed the maddening detective. Instead, he left Sherlock to his own company unless they were on a case, sneaking out at least twice a day to smoke, despite Sherlocks protestations that the kitchen window would do.

Sherlock wanted to write John's behaviour off as a tepid angst to his return, but he hoped John would return to his cheery and wonderous self soon enough.

Inside his mind, Sherlock knew that things may never truly return to what they once were. He supposed it was his fault, two years was supposedly a rather long time to be dead for.

Even so, Sherlock had made a series of deductions, noticing things about John, that to him, appeared to be maddening corner pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit into the bigger picture. John wasn't sleeping, despite his regularly files prescription for his sleeping pills. He rarely ate, suspected to be falling back into his post-war ptsd induced eating problems. He drank frequently, but never presented a hangover, suggesting that his tolerance had been built up sufficiently to avoid that particular repercussion.

Sherlock's best friend, his only friend, refused to meet his gaze. It was Johns way of saying that he didn't want Sherlock in his head, observing and deducing.

It stung, and truly bit at him to think he had been so excited to be re-joined to his Watson, yet John seemed to be so hesitant and unhappy at his return. Until John decided Sherlock could be trusted again, Sherlock had resigned himself to being buried within his work, hoping that the familiarity would coax John Watson out of his shell.

Thankfully, soon after they were confronted with a rather challenging case. Alexander Kearney, or "The Coffin Catcher" as the press had dubbed him, had been on a rather well-publicised and sickening killing spree.

"I don't understand why they've named him that," Sherlock mused, not tearing his eyes from Victorian maps of London he claimed could be paramount to this case. John didn't look up from typing, on his laptop examining medical records. Lestrade was there too, at 221B. They'd convened a late night investigation team.

"Call who what?" Asked Lestrade, rearranging the papers he'd spread across the floor, as if the answer would just jump out to him.

"The Coffin Catcher, it's ridiculous. He doesn't catch coffins, he puts people in them, and it's only fuelling the sadistic pervert."

"I don't know Sherlock. It's just what they do." John chimed in, finally before banging aggressively on his keyboard.

"John's right, journalists are bumbling idiots doing nothing more than trying to create a bigger spectacle of this than it already is."

Lestrade said, clearly irritated at how frustrating journalism could make his job.

"It's true Sherlock, they're just fishing and wanting to turn this into some great big horror movie-esque narrative." John was still angry tapping at his laptop.

"Well I wish they wouldn't. They've destroyed three crime scenes by trampling all over them, looking for the latest cover photo."

"Yeah, well if you could do your whole Sherlock thing, and figure out how he always seems to be one step ahead of us, maybe there wouldn't be any more crime scenes!" John yelled, slamming his laptop shut in frustration.

These cases always affected John greatly, knowing that he was ineffectual and unable to stop the murders. He was frustrated, and the atmosphere in the room was charged.

Instead of his usual response, which would be to go straight to the defence, show off and make some tactless deductions about whoever insulted him, Sherlock deflated.

"I know." Sherlock replied, tonelessly.

There was an air of finality in the room. Sherlock never conceded defeat. Even Lestrade was staring at him. Lestrade frowned, then clearly decided that he'd had enough of trying, as he resigned himself to the whiskey in the kitchen. John stuck his face in his hands and groaned.

"We're just running out of time." A few moments passed, but Sherlock spluttered into laughter. He jumped up and clapped his hands together, rubbing them together in glee.

"That's it! Oh, John I could kiss you!" John's heart skipped a beat. "Time!" He continued, unaware of the affect he had upon the Dr Watson. "That's what we've been missing! Time! It's one of those pestering deductions that catch up with me just a little after the fact! Oh, Time!" John was staring incredulously.

If Sherlock was feeling less obnoxious than usual, he'd enlighten them to his little deduction before too long. If not, they'd have to watch this song and dance for a little longer.

"Time John! Time! It's been staring at us all along. We just never did the math."

"Would you like to enlighten the rest of us then, perhaps?" Greg finally asked. He was still in the kitchen and hadn't tore his attention from pouring another measure of whiskey. They were both used to Sherlock's behaviour by now and gave him time to be a prick before he caught them up.

"Mary Keller, last victim. John, what was the estimated T. O. D?"

"Uhhh," John tapped a couple of times on his laptop scanning the information. "Around three am."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, and when it was clear that the penny hadn't dropped for anyone else, he continued.

"I'd always been going on the assumption that the disposal was roughly the same time as the time of death but it's not, it's not been that at all. They've been buried _alive_. How long does it take to die, buried alive? John?"

John's attention was still focused on Sherlocks threat of a kiss, but the thought of being buried alive doused those erotic thoughts in icy water.

"Well, going by the average volume of a human, and that one fifth should be oxygen. If you consumed roughly point five litres per minute, it'd take about five and a half hours before you ran out."

John frowned and rode the wave of nausea that came with the thought of being buried alive. It seemed a nasty way to go.

"Right, but what else do we know? What does he do with the victims? Lestrade!"

Lestrade walked back into the lounge, whiskey glass in hand.  
"He holds them for forty-eight hours before, presumably to scare them, and getting off on the fear that sets in once they know what's going to happen." Lestrade added.

"Exactly. He holds them for exactly forty-eight hours! Don't you see!"

Lestrade shook his head, but then remembered himself. It wouldn't do to seem like a bunch of schoolkids being taught by Sherlock. His ego was already far too big.

"If Keller died at three am, she must have been buried around ten pm, allowing for time to dig, restrain her, bury the dirt again. And we know that Kearney is pure sadist, so he wants to watch, he will have stayed the entire duration of the time, listening and waiting." Johns revulsion was written across his face, features twisted into grimace and horror.

"But," Sherlock continued, "When was Tom Hughes abducted?"

"The same night, nine pm at a nightclub in Shoreditch. Last seen 'going for a slash', as an eyewitness put it." Lestrade chimed in.

"So what do we imagine then? That Kearney abducted Hughes, subdued him, restrained him wherever he was, then dragged Keller, transporting her past the Thames into the dump site in Burgess Park in time to watch and start his ritual?"

"He couldn't have done it." Said Lestrade, feeling like he'd reached a great conclusion.

"So?" Sherlock prompted. Lestrade frowned. He was clearly stumped again.

"Your face will stick like that." Said Sherlock to Lestrade, annoyed. "John?" Sherlock probed.

"If he didn't do it, then someone else did."

"Meaning?" He probed again, now frustrated it took so long for his colleagues to catch up.

"Then someone else did." Sherlock nodded. Then he paused and waited. John was clearly distracted.

"He's got an accomplice!" Yelled John, and Sherlock let out the breath he was holding.

"So, we're looking for another man?" Lestrade chimed in inquisitively.

"No, I shouldn't think so. Male-Female killing partners are far more common, plus no one would have looked twice at a woman pulling Tom Hughes from a 'night out with his mates'. Additionally, women are far more likely to give aid to other women, less likely to have their guard up."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and nodded in agreement.

"Lestrade, put the whiskey down. The game is back on!"

* * *

It took the trio less than an hour to find the woman. Hannah James, thirty-one, London native, five foot three with a jagged black pixie cut.

She was in both pieces of footage, luring victims away. It gave John chills, how calm and collected she seemed, when he knew what would happen next.

Miss James had recently bought an old dilapidated warehouse just outside central London. Lestrade remarked that it was obviously a trap, and Sherlock scoffed that obviously, and told them that therefore that was the first place they must look.

It was an imposing building, stained whitewash a dramatic contrast to broken windows, the jagged glass teeth threatening to swallow them all whole.

They'd worked through the night, upon Lestrade's insistence that 'the game may very well be on, but paperwork has to be done first'.

Dawn had long broken and the morning sky was white with cloud, peppering's of grey a later threat of rain. Lestrade had dragged an entire backup team along with them, mainly on Sherlock's request that 'they'd have a good show'.

Lestrade took that to mean they'd probably make an arrest and quell the herd of reporters causing a public outcry for the police to 'do something'.

John and Sherlock were in the back of Lestrade's police car, listening to sergeants and officers radioing throughout the cars, discussing plans of action and the quickest, safest way to sweep through the entire building, when Lestrade turned to the duo, face like thunder.

"Now, I'm being serious here." He ignored Sherlocks mocking eyebrow raise. "You two might be an integral part of this investigation, and most investigations we have, but this isn't a joke. This isn't a game, and I'm looking at you Sherlock. This is the most dangerous, and wildly reported case we've had recently, save his highness" He eyes turned to pointed daggers at Sherlock.

"Look Greg, we want to see Kearney brought to justice as much as you do, and I'm -we're not going to do anything to jeopardise that." John replied, giving Lestrade a sincere look.

"I'm serious, they're dangerous people and we have good men out here today. I don't want to do anything to put anyone in anymore danger than we're all already in. That includes you, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pouted, like a petulant child.

"Oh God Lestrade, don't be boring. Don't worry, the big bad consulting detective won't do anything to damage your reputation or put any of your 'good men' in danger."

"I didn't mean that! I'm including you in the- ", Sherlock wasn't waiting for a reply, and he didn't hear the rest of what Lestrade said. He threw his door open and left the car, practically running into the building. It didn't take Sherlock long to find evidence that this was where they were supposed to be.

In one room there was clear evidence of staging a crime scene, chains barely used, handcuffs clearly never worn.

They were clearly aiming for the overdramatic, no body recovered had shown any sign of the kind of trauma associated with metal handcuffs.

They were clearly planning some sort of drama filled end game, which irritated Sherlock to no end. Thankfully, the egotistical dramatic types were always sloppy, and overlooked the devil that was in the details.

Sherlock stalked through the rooms, clearing them one by one. He hadn't seen John or Lestrade, but he'd heard the teams enter, and shrugged the thought of them away.

He could hear the police closing in behind him and heard Johns voice. He didn't stop to think why, but as soon as he heard John, he doubled back on himself, re-joining the group.

It wasn't a conscious thought, nor was it an urge he ever thought to question, but he found himself needing to be back at John's side. He heard muttering, and he could have sworn he heard Lestrade muttering something about the returning drama queen.

"Alright?" John asked. He was without his cane and had a pistol strapped to his hip.

"Vatican Cameo's, John?" Sherlock asked, smile creeping into the corners of his cheeks. John didn't smile.

John nodded, perhaps a little too solemn. Sherlock fought back a scowl, unable to hide his petulance and frustration. He longed for John to return to him, to get over whatever angst or frustration was holding him back from being himself.

Any reaction was better than frustrating indifference. He shook off his annoyance. Now was not a time to get caught up behind messy emotions, or have his judgement clouded. He needed to be sharp, ruthless, brilliant.

"Found anything?" Lestrade asked him. Sherlock nodded.

"Just a fake crime scene, though I'm sure if you asked Anderson to go over it he'd cry and claim to find something."

"So, where are they?" Lestrade asked again.

"I'd wager they're waiting on the roof. They wanted drama, and by now they must know we're here. It seems that they're planning their endgame somewhere high, in full view of drones and any press coverage they might want." It was John who spoke now.

"Then we need to be careful, we don't know if the place is rigged to blow or if there's been any – Oh Sherlock for fuck sake!"

Lestrade was shouting because Sherlock had turned on his heels and headed in the direction of the nearest stairwell.

John groaned and ran after him. He took the stairs as fast as he could, but it was nothing compared to Sherlock, tall and graceful, who seemed to ascend entire floors at a time.

When John finally got onto the roof, pushing past the heavy door, Sherlock was no-where to be found. He weaved between exhaust fans, and called out a few times, but all around him was seemingly deafening silence.

John's heart began to palpitate, and memories Sherlocks last adventure on a rooftop ran through his mind. John sobbed silently and clutched his chest.

"Sherlock!" John yelled out again. There was no reply, but John heard footsteps behind him. He turned around, and his blood ran cold.

Kearney and James, both clad in black, like ravens atop the tower. Sherlock had his back to John. He was moving slowly, and if John didn't know any better, seemed to be putting himself directly between the killers and the doctor.

"Now, now, let's not stop Dr. Watson from joining in the fun" Kearney seemed to mock Sherlock.

His voice was dangerous, and it sounded like a direct threat to John. John moved toward James, whom had stayed silently stoic. He spied the gun on her hip, and his breathing hitched. Luckily, he brought his own.

"Shall we get started then?" Kearney asked, laughing.

"Started?" Sherlock replied, voice equally as low and threatening. John couldn't help but find it seductive, how velvety it was, his urgency bleeding into every word. "I would have thought we were supposed to be approaching your final chapter?"

"Oh no, not ours, Mr Holmes. This is your fin de Partie, so to speak."

Sherlocks heard skipped a beat and kicked himself for letting John follow him onto the roof.

 _So, their plan involves me. Very well, let's see how we can take this._

It's like his brain went into overdrive, information flooding into his consciousness.

 _Fall from building, forty feet. Weapons, James' gun, John's gun, Kearney's knife hidden in his boot. Alex Kearny, liar, previously owned cats, undiagnosed heart condition, wants to be a psychopath. Actual diagnosis, narcissist. Hannah James, smaller, inexperienced with murder, petty theft only previous. Broken toe on left foot, carpal tunnel in right hand. Never shot a gun, easy to subdue. Flair for the dramatic, manipulated and currently emotionally dependent. Good, we can exploit that._

It seemed like Sherlock had spent hours exploring them, but it had only been seconds.

"Fascinating, really." Sherlock murmured to himself.

"Not now Sherlock." He heard John reply, his voice low and cautious.

"As exciting as I assume my eventual death could be, I highly doubt that I'm going to be perishing now, on this rooftop, at the hands of either of you. It's been awfully fun, but I'm rather bored now and have frightfully more important things to be doing with my time. If you don't mind, there are several teams of policemen downstairs, and will be more than helpful to you if you just pop down and turn yourselves in. Thanks!"

Sherlock beamed, a grin spreading from ear to ear. He'd barely had time to turn, his coat billowing, before Kearney started yelling.

Words spilt from him without being prompted, and honestly, John found it a little boring. They always did this, the bad guys. Feign a little disinterest and they jump into action, spilling their entire plan in front of you like breadcrumbs.

"You ain't going anywhere, Mr Holmes. If you thought the press went mad for the bodies in the coffin, they're going to go crazy for a live streaming of the death of the great Sherlock Holmes, and his pretty little assistant." John scoffed at the use of the term assistant.

"And how exactly do you think you'll be doing that?" Sherlock asked.

"Like this." Hannah said, before pulling out her gun and aiming it squarely at Sherlock. John's hand barely grazed the edge of his gun before Kearney shouted at him to stop.

"I wouldn't, Dr Watson. You think we would have brought you all up here without contingency? You make one wrong move, and all I've gotta do is push a button, and bye-bye to all your little police buddies downstairs!"

Kearney pulled out a tiny remote from his pocket and wiggled it in front of John. His stomach turned.

He was angry, fearful and overcome, all at once. He couldn't quite process it, how two killers had suddenly turned into a threat over their very existence.

If he died here, if this was the end, he couldn't help but feel disappointed, and perhaps quite empty that he'd never at least told Sherlock how he felt.

It broke his heart a little, but he knew there wasn't time for that. He knew he had to work now, it was time to be soldiers.

"So where do we go from here?" John asked. He was trying to be emotionless, emulating Sherlock, but it played out as feigning disinterest.

"We're waiting for the drones, they'll be here shortly, and once we've got an audience, it's bye-bye birdie."

"Sherlock –"Johns' voice broke.

"Yes, I know John, I am aware of the situation." Sherlock sounded annoyed.

John reflexively flinched away. His blood was flowing, his emotions and senses were heightened. He thought Sherlock must have a plan. Sherlock always had a plan.

"Are you really sure you want to be doing that, Miss James?" Hannah cocked her head and the gun to the side, before grinning and nodding.

"Right. Well, as happy as I'm sure you are to be finally giving into your murderous impulses, you probably should have full disclosure. You mean nothing to him, you never have, and you never will, and murdering me or John on this roof will not make him love you. There's a reason you're holding the gun and he hasn't even reached for his knife. Think about it."

Sherlock's voice was low and tender, he sounded wholesome and honest.

"Liar." She said. Her eyes narrowed.

"Am I? You know me, you know what I can do. I can prove it to you. Think about it, think about what he made you do, think about who did all that terribly infuriating legwork."

"You're lying. He said you'd lie, said you'd try and fill my head with a lot of lies." Sherlock's back was turned to John, but he didn't need to see his face to know he was rolling his eyes.

"He's lying, sweetheart." Kearney had been otherwise silent.

"I'm not, and we both know it." James' steady hand had begun to falter. She turned the gun, pointing squarely at John.

He took a step back, held his hands in the air. Memories came flooding back, and in an instant, he was back in Afghanistan.

"You don't want to be doing that." Sherlock's voice was lower and threatening.

"Yes I do." Hannah pursed her lips.

"Point it back at me."

"No."

"Why?"

"What would be the point?" Hannah sighed.

"You're upsetting me. I want to upset you."

"You won't." Johns breathing hitched.

"Why's that then? You're lying. He loves me and we're a team, just like you and John are."

"We aren't though." John's heart throbbed in his mouth. He was confused, and really not liking Sherlock's plan, nor the fact he didn't seem to be clued into it.

"We haven't been since 'Sherlock lives.' Besides, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I don't do friends, I don't do teams, and I don't do caring. John is simply an addition to the long-coat that makes me look tall. It always pays to have someone stupid around to make you look smarter, and I'm afraid you are that, Miss James."

Her finger lightly grazed the trigger.

"Hannah, Hannah. I'm sorry. You want to be called Hannah."

She nodded again, and tears were pricking at her eyes.

Kearney had said nothing through this entire exchange and simply seemed to be accepting the inevitable.

He knew the end was nearing and could no longer be bothered with the trifling pretence of emotions.

"Is this true, Alex? Do you really not love me?" Tears rolled down her cheeks freely now, and her hand, like her entire body, was shaking.

He looked at her but said nothing. It seemed to be a forever for Hannah, the intense waiting for each second seeming like forever, each heartbeat feeling like her last.

Finally, Alexander Kearney started laughing. It was soft at first, quite like a chuckle, but soon rolled into big loud belly laughs.

"Of course, I don't. I don't give a fuck about you, you stupid bitch." Kearney's accent seemed to make his words harder, more brutal somehow.

"You're just a really convenient lacky and somewhere wet to hide my cock." John winced at the vulgarity.

"You mean nothing to me Hannah, you never meant anything, and you never will." He laughed again, hard enough for his shoulders to bounce.

"But-"

"No, no buts you stupid cow. I'm not interested! Do you have any idea how long I've waited, how boring it is listening to you drone on and on and pretending to love you and your snivelling whiny bitch personality? But fuck this, it's all going to be over soon! They'll both be dead!"

Hannah's eyes widened, and she cried out.

"Come on now, Hannah. Point the gun at me, and we can start talking about your options,"

Sherlock was soft and inviting. John wasn't really listening, the words everyone spoke seemed to be nothing more than a background distraction.

He heard nothing past Sherlocks offhand insults and declaration of abject disinterest.

The logical part of his brain would have postulated that this was simply a rouse, like his happy neighbour or polite tenant impressions, that it was simply to start a conversation and was part of his bigger plan to get them all from the roof safely.

Unfortunately, the logical part of his brain wasn't working and had absolutely no part in his feelings. He was numb, completely and seemingly irrevocably.

John felt betrayed like he had bore his soul completely to Sherlock and Sherlock had simply shrugged in reply.

His head was spinning, yet he was struggling to retain composure, struggling to keep his eyes fixed on the situation before him, struggling to not lose it and start sobbing in front of the murderers or Sherlock.

He forced himself to pull himself from the pit of despair he was drowning into. Forcing his attention back, he regarded Hannah James in detail. The girl was clearly distressed, and he entirely sympathised.

"So I'm really nothing to him? Like he's nothing to you?" She asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. It was the final nail, the painful last straw for John, and he felt a traitorous tear fell from his eye, rolling angrily down his cheek. Hannah saw, and locked eyes with Sherlock.

"Let's see shall we?"

Moments turned into motion before anyone on the rooftop had the chance to stop it.

Hannah moved, and John saw the barrel of the gun point toward him.

A single gunshot rang out. John head Sherlock screaming 'no!' before his world turned black. Somewhere, though he wasn't sure if it was dream or reality, he heard a woman scream.


	4. Chapter Four

A single gunshot rang out. John head Sherlock screaming 'no!' before his world turned black. Somewhere, though he wasn't sure if it was dream or reality, he heard a woman scream.

When John came to, he could only focus on the searing pain in his forehead. He scrunched his eyes shut, and then tentatively fluttered his eyelids open.

The sky, a wet white with sprinklings of ash grey, was the first thing he saw. Then, when he began to focus, the dark outline of Greg Lestrade came into view.

"Hello sleepyhead – feeling better are we?" He asked. John groaned in response. He sat up, and ran gentle fingers across his forehead. His fingers returned bloodstained.

"Yeah, we're going to have to ask medical to take a look at that." John scowled.

"What happened?" John asked, almost slurring his words. He was still groggy from the head wound. Memories flooded him, but he couldn't quite make sense of them.

 _Had he been shot? Was this hell? Where was Sherlock?_

He went to stand, but Greg pushed him back down.

When John looked around, he was still on the roof. Sherlock was in the corner, talking to a police-officer. Neither Hannah or Alex where anywhere to be seen, but the roof was still seemingly full of people, mainly officers, and a scattering of forensics experts.

"You got shot. Get over it."

Greg chuckled, but it was hollow, and concern lay behind it.

John groaned, his bones tired and unyielding. He reached up, and tugged at the Velcro strapping on his bulletproof Vest. He didn't remove it entirely, it was still tucked under his shirt, but he loosened it, providing some relief from the tightness he felt.

"You hit your head on the way down, pansy."

Greg smirked, and so did John, but he winced when the pain hit his head. His memories were pouring now, steadily like water, back into his head.

He remembered the pain, humiliation and embarrassment he felt when Sherlock blatantly rejected him, writing him off as nothing more than a hapless sidekick and unwanted guest. The pain filled him again, and threatened to pour out of him unless he squashed it down.

He was lost in his thoughts, heartbreak dangling dangerously close to shattering him into a thousand pieces when Greg spoke to him again.

"You ready to move? CSI needs to move in."

John pulled himself out of his thoughts and nodded half-heartedly. He took Greg's outstretched hand and limped to his feet. He walked, or more, hobbled, down the several flights of stairs, that not too long ago he had run after Sherlock on.

That seemed so far away to him now. Whilst they walked, Greg caught John up on the missing moments of his consciousness.

"So Hannah shot you, and Sherlock yelled out. He seemed really concerned, which was really emotional for someone like him."

Greg laughed again, and scratched behind his ear. John wanted to be pleased, and the naive, loving part of him wanted to find solace in Sherlocks concern, but the angsty, pessimism within him brought Sherlocks cruel words back to the forefront of his mind.

"Mycroft had been clued in from the beginning, and he'd organised the media blackout, so we never had the media storm they were expecting. God, the 'bomb' they thought they'd made was faulty, so all bomb squad really had to do was cart it out of here. When he ran to you, that was interesting, I don't think he knew that you were wearing the vest, though I did make you put it on after he left, sanctimonious git.."

"What happened to the killers?"

John asked, knowing if he didn't probe the nice detective he would talk John's ear off for the rest of the day.

"Oh, yeah. Well Alex knew his goose was cooked, so to speak, and he… well… do you want the record version or what actually happened?" John gave him nothing but a raised eyebrow in response.

"Officially, he knew that his plan would never come to fruition, and jumped off the building instead of face the authorities."

He paused.

"Sherlock threw him off the building, he tackled the sod and Kearney didn't stand a chance."

"Hannah?"

"She was too distraught to put up much of a fight. I guess she really believed the sick fuck loved her. We have her in custody."

John sighed. That was a feeling he knew all too well.

John had his head wound looked at by a rather attractive male paramedic, who tried, and failed, to flirt with him.  
John sighed to himself and struggled to resign himself to a lifetime of being destroyed, emotionally and physically by Sherlock.

He wouldn't make another three years like this. He'd removed his bulletproof vest and was buttoning his shirt back up when Sherlock finally decided to make an appearance.

"Ahh, still with us I see. Always did have a dramatic streak John."

Sherlock said, attempting to be blasé, though on the inside, his pulse quickened and breathing hitched at the sight of the tiny extra little bit of John that was exposed. John snorted in response and shook his head in indignation.

Sherlock Holmes really was unbelievable. John sighed and pulled his jacket on.

"What? You can't really be mad at me, can you?" Sherlock asked, seemingly sincere. John scoffed.

"You've got to be kidding me." His eyebrows knitted together.

"Oh John, don't be stupid. You know what the game is like, the lies we must tell. Don't take it so personally."

Sherlock shook his head in condescension. John forced himself to roll his eyes.

If he didn't, if John couldn't maintain this underwhelmed and unaffected persona, he'd break. John refused to break in front of Sherlock, to reveal his last piece of disgusting vulnerability to Sherlock, he knew he'd never be able to be in the same room as Sherlock ever again.

 _No Sherlock was worse than Sherlock breaking his heart and tearing it in two._

"Personally?" He asked, wet tears on his heart turning into dry anger in his throat. "Fucking, personally?" Sherlock cocked his head, and breathed.

"I don't see why you're so affected John, you didn't die."

Sherlock brushed it off, acting like his world didn't nearly come tumbling down when he thought John had been shot.

"Like you'd care. I'm nothing more but a way to make you look taller. Compensating for something?" John probed, his voice getting a dangerous gravely texture to it.

"I didn't mean –"

"Don't. Do not do that, Sherlock. Don't insult me more by pretending you didn't mean it. You did, and we both know that."

"John." Said Sherlock, his name being the only response he could muster.

"I always knew, I wasn't ever going to be your best friend, someone you whispered secrets into the night with, or someone you could take down the pub for a pint. I knew I was never on your level, I could never even try, I can barely keep up with your insane schedule. But really? Not even your friend? After everything I did for you? I'm just something to make you look smarter. Am I something to make you look less human too? Funny little man with funny little emotions you can spit back at me when it suits you, a "hey look at him that silly little guy" kinda thing?!"

"John, now isn't the time for one of your little episodes of insecurity." Sherlock's voice was pointed, and jagged, and he seemed put out, being held accountable for his actions.

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm done. I'm really fucking done." Sherlock scoffed.

"You're never done."

"I'm done now. I'm done this time and I'm done with you. I thought I was going to get all emotional, but I'm not. I'm done."

John was lying through his teeth, and was threatening to break down any second.

"John. Don't be like this. Why're you so hurt? You didn't die. Get over it." Sherlock knew as soon as he said that that he shouldn't have.

John slammed the door to the car he was using closed, and, eyes closed in frustrated, yelled out.

"Because I could have, Sherlock. I could have died, she could have aimed for my fucking head, and you wouldn't have cared! I can't cope with the fact you haven't fucking cared about any of this. Yes, I love the game, and oh god I love it when the game is on, but I can't cope with not even having a partner."

"You have me." He sounded serious. John didn't buy it.

"No, I don't. I have a man that uses me as nothing more than a short friend and acomplimentary colour fucking palate, and has no qualms putting me in front of a speeding bullet all because it makes him look clever! I have a stress disorder, an inability to sleep through the night, and two years of grief, for a man that is incapable of understanding friendship, let alone having a best friend."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Before she shot me, you claimed I meant nothing to you. What I'm telling you Sherlock, is that you have done nothing, not a fucking thing, to prove what you just said wrong. You left me, and you let me bleed."

"You bumped your head!"

Johns heartache, the feeling he thought was a never ending pit of despair, was turning into a fire in his throat.

"Fuck you. Just, fuck you Sherlock. You left, for two fucking years. You didn't give a fuck. That's the simple truth. You didn't tell me because you didn't care."

"Oh this again? I didn't tell you because-" He stopped short of whatever he was going to say, in favour for swallowing and awkward silence.

Sherlock looked at John, studying his features, and could see the pure revulsion and anger written on his face. It broke his heart, but he, he couldn't comprehend his own emotions, let alone navigate the complexities of someone else's.

"Forgive me?" He asked, childishly wishing this would all go away.

"I can't do that Sherlock. You have no idea, no fucking clue of how badly you affect me."

Johns nostrils flared. That was true. Sherlock could affect John, in a mere second, a moment, Sherlock had the power to change everything. He could do anything, and John hated him for it.

Sure, there was so much more to John's truth, but Sherlock would never know that. He thought John was only talking about simple friendship.

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. I'm out." He said and shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

He ducked into the driver's seat, stuck the keys into the ignition and drove off, a cloud of dust and gravel flaring behind him.

Sherlock kicked the gravel and shouted out, cursing the air around him. He turned and scowled at the plethora of policemen standing behind him, all stopping what they were doing to gawk at him. It was frustrating, and arguably humiliating to be the local entertainment.

When he thought his day wasn't going to get any worse, his pocket buzzed. Reaching for it, his scowl seemed to knit into one single mass of furrowed eyebrow.

 _So happy you're not dead, brother mine. Do tear yourself away from playing detective. Come get lunch, and play nice. -MH._


End file.
